Laura Donnelly

The flowers are cut
and gathered
in blue and white bunches—
delphinium stalk, lemon grass,
wax flowers' pepper scent.
In the chapel, the piano plays "Sinfonia,"
just "Sinfonia," the first bars
she has memorized
without thinking, so she'll know
when to step through the door
to the aisle.
                      And we turn,
the way people turn when they hear
a noise at their back,
something from outside,
wind or tree branches against
the window. Or something more
unexpected—the crash
from a chair collapsing ten rows back,
quick noise coming from a direction
we are not facing, which is
where she enters from, and in this way,
though without a sound.